


don't fall (for your best friend)

by cowboykillers



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3776917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykillers/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the 'five times kissed' meme on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't fall (for your best friend)

## i. don’t.

Half-stumbling and somehow always into each other, Foggy would love to ask himself how it is that they ended up so far across town without so much as cab fare between them, but his head’s spinning too fast for him to catch anything but the tail end of one thought as it bleeds into the next. He knows everything is loud and bright, feels every laugh warm his chest and throat on the way out, watches the shape they take in the cold, crisp night air as he and Matt gasp their way through nonsensical conversation.

Finals, man.  _Finals._ If being past that fresh hell isn’t a reason to go out and celebrate, he doesn’t know what is – and it seems like that’s the only time he can drag Matt out of their dorm and convince him to drink until the world blurs at the edges and  _everything_  is funny.

(To be fair, everything’s always funny around Foggy, anyway. He’s got a great sense of humor. It’s just that no one else gets it–)

He’s saying it aloud, though he doesn’t realize it, hands gripped loosely in the front of Matt’s sweater. Just repeating it at this point, a sloppy, lazy smile on his face as he insists, “Nobody but you, Matty,” and Matt nods his head in tacit agreement.

Their steps slow, hindered by the fact that they keep bumping their sneakers together every second step, and Foggy finally just stops, dropping his forehead heavily on Matt’s shoulder. “Hey, man, hey. Just. Wow, we are so drunk.”

“We are _so_ drunk,” Matt agrees, lifting his cane like he’s announcing an achievement, smile wide and victorious. Foggy barks a laugh, drawing back and overcompensating, swaying with the motion as Matt dissolves into another round of snorting laughter. “I can say we are, unequivocally – we are, shit, we are very drunk.”  


“Stairs,” Foggy announces, though they’re at least fifteen feet away at this point. “Like, over there, stairs. Matt, how’re we gonna get home?”  


“You mean the dorm?” Matt’s smile fades in and out in intensity, but lingers nonetheless, a faint curl at the corners of his mouth. His smile comes easier when they’re drinking, and Foggy’s never figured out if it’s the liquor that  _makes_  him smile or the liquor that  _lets_  him smile.

He’s also never figured out what to do about the way his stomach flips over itself every time Matt’s smile is startled out of him, wide and bright and riding the edge of a laugh.

“Yeah, that,” he returns, releasing Matt’s butter-soft sweater and swinging away on an imaginary hinge. His shoulders hit a building, a stark, freezing counterpoint to how  _warm_  everything else is, and he tips his head back, basking in the feeling of it.  


“Foggy?” Matt’s hand finds him, patting confusedly over his awkwardly turned collar, and his fingers dip beneath the fabric, curl against his skin. “Are you okay?”

He still sounds amused, and Foggy brings his own hand up, cracking open one eye to survey him. It makes all the lights less intense, helps keep the world from spinning quite so much – (keeps his stomach steadier, though is it upset from the tequila or the icy burn of fingers against his collarbone?) – and he reaches for Matt with his other hand, his intent to steady him.

He, of course, startles Matt, who stumbles over Foggy’s feet. It’s a mad scramble to keep their balance, punctuated by huffing laughter and one very genuine squeal, though he’s not sure who it comes from; they manage to keep standing, though only just barely, and it’s  _hilarious_  in the way that it’s actually funny but it’s also a little bit terrifying, because Matt’s face is very,  _very_  close to his own.

“We almost went ass over teakettle,” Foggy whispers, hands gripping just a little too tightly on Matt’s upper arms, acutely aware of Matt’s breath puffing over his face when he laughs.

“Who says that?” Matt’s nose bumps against Foggy’s, and Foggy realizes, dimly, there are hands at his hips, and he doesn’t remember when they got there, but he can feel the twin points of pressure with the kind of hypersensitivity that only comes with being very inebriated.  


“My mom?” He asks, uncertain, as Matt’s lips catch on his, chapped and warm and sending all of his thoughts to a grinding, screeching halt.  


It lasts three seconds, tops, more of a clumsy press than an actual kiss, and then Matt’s face is pressed into Foggy’s neck, shoulders shaking with laughter, as he breathes, “Your  _mom_ ,” into his skin.

## ii. don’t fall.

It didn’t count as a kiss, Foggy always reasoned with himself, because they were drunk and, to be honest, Matt’s  _blind_. It’s not completely outside the realm of possibility that he missed his mark on his way to – to whatever that was, and anyway, it’s not like they ever bring it up.

Matt mentions it once, offhandedly, the next day – “What did we  _do_  last night?” with the heel of his hand pressed to his temple, more of a  _why does my head feel like an elephant stepped on it_  than a bisexual crisis – and Foggy goes for safe rather than sorry and lies about blacking out.

It’s easier that way, especially because he’s been struggling, sort of, with this – crush thing – recently. At first it was just kind of a  _wow_ , which he would challenge anyone not to experience a wow moment upon meeting his bastard of a wannabe model roommate, but then he’d had to go and get to know him. And man, does he  _like_  him.

But it’s not like – it’s not like he’s sitting around pining. (Not like he did for Punjabi girl, for whom he’d scrambled to get a seat in a class he didn’t want to be in so that he could moon after her, who occupied his thoughts and daydreams while he listened to Train on repeat.) Matt’s his friend, his  _best_  friend, and if he sometimes gets a little twisted up in the guts when he looks at him, that’s incidental.

He’d rather keep things exactly as they are than get hung up on what was frankly not even a very impressive kiss, especially considering they’re graduating and moving on to their big, bright futures (couched in crippling debt, oh my god, he can’t think about that–)

His whole family turned out, which he was of course reluctantly, embarrassedly overjoyed about, and as he’s bounced between aunts, uncles, cousins and some people he suspects are actually complete strangers, he can’t help but think about the fact that Matt’s got  _no one_  to show up and clap him on the back and tell him how proud of him he is.

So Foggy does it, drawing him into the circle of the Nelson clan, introducing him to everyone like he’s part of the family already, and nobody makes a big deal about it. They just shake his hand and congratulate him, and Foggy watches the smile edging its way around Matt’s mouth, tries to decide if it’s more pleased or strained every time he catches sight of it, can’t quite put his finger on it.

Then his  _mother_  gets ahold of Matt, and that’s about when Foggy elbows his way over, watching with more than his fair share of amusement as Anna Nelson brackets Matt’s face between her hands and presses a smacking kiss on his mouth.

“Franklin,” she admonishes, a hand darting out to snag him and drag him over, and he executes his habitual eye roll for his full given name. “Come here, I want a picture of you and Matthew.”  


He shuffles into place obediently, slinging an arm around Matt’s shoulders, and out of the corner of his mouth he mutters, “Sorry about getting you jumped.”

With a wide smile in place, Matt says through his teeth, “No you aren’t.”

Anna takes several pictures, commanding them to move this way, pose like that, and then finally she says, “Okay, now a silly one!” and really, what else is he going to do?

He turns his head, grinning wide, and says, “Not sorry for this, either,” as he leans in and revisit’s Anna’s enthusiastic kiss, much to her delight and Matt’s dismay.

Matt shoves him back, but he’s smiling, laughing, as his hand curls in the front of Foggy’s robe, and he thinks,  _good_. He knew it was a joke.

(And he thinks,  _ah, shit_. because it really wasn’t.)

## iii. don’t fall for –

The thing about your best friend being blind is that he can’t really help you move into your new apartment, and you’re sort of honor bound to move him into his, otherwise you’re the world’s most giant dick.

Foggy is a lot of things, but he thinks he falls near the national average on the whole dickitude scale, so. He gets Matt moved in and then Matt comes and hangs out with him while he moves his stuff around, which is about all he can ask for, and it definitely makes the process more fun.

Takes twice as long, and Matt’s the kind of asshole who keeps giving interior decorating advice, which means it takes Foggy approximately a glacial age to get anything done because he spends half his time bickering with Matt as he unloads his dinosaurs and the fat Italian men he’s going to place pretty much everywhere (”You’re  _Irish_ , Foggy, and not in college anymore.” “Shut up, Matt, these guys are timeless.”). 

They order in, pizza and soda and lava cakes because Foggy has a weakness, and they forego the couch Foggy’d had to slip the neighbor kid five bucks to help him haul upstairs in favor of the floor, legs kicked out, the open box of pizza between them.

Three-fourths of the way through the pie and he has regrets,  _so many regrets_ , and he can tell Matt does, too, because they both end up on their backs on the floor, a comfortable sort of quiet between them that he’s never been able to achieve with anyone else. Matt’s hands are laced over his stomach, glasses folded up neatly on the coffee table neither of them bothered to use, and Foggy’s arms are stretched over his head.

“Thanks for the help, asshole,” Foggy says contentedly, eyes drifting to half mast. He’s full and drowsy with it, well aware that if he doesn’t make himself get up soon, he’s going to fall asleep in the middle of his living room floor.   


He can hear the smile in Matt’s voice as he returns, “You definitely need it, Fogs.”

“Screw you,” he laughs, and they must manage to time it  _exactly wrong_ , because just as he’s rolling up onto his side Matt’s doing the same, and they don’t kiss so much as they collide, Foggy’s mouth parted on a retort that never quite makes it out.  


They hover there for a second, in some weird moment suspended in time, before Foggy drops onto his back again and exhales gustily.

“The inside of my apartment looks  _bomb_ ,” he asserts, ignoring the soft flutter in his chest, and Matt doesn’t say anything about it, either, so he knows he made the right choice.  


## iv. don’t fall for your…

Karen comes into their life and it changes things, but for the better. She’s honest and she’s  _innocent_ , and more than that, she’s a friend from the moment she lets herself believe they’re the good guys. She fits seamlessly into what was once a partnership and makes it something better, something whole; they’re a team, and if it ever occurred to Foggy to resent Karen for being there, he’d be the last person to realize it.

Murdock and Nelson and Page. It even  _sounds_  good.

And yeah, he likes her. He likes her a  _lot_ ; it started because she was the picture of the damsel in distress, and who doesn’t want to protect someone who looks like a China doll? Who doesn’t feel good about himself  _helping_  people? But Karen’s not a doll, and she’s nobody’s damsel, and that’s when liking her gets bumped up a level, mingles with respect and admiration and genuine affection.

He asks her out a couple times, because why shouldn’t he? He sees the way she looks at Matt, the soft, warm light that comes into her eyes, and he can relate. He can totally relate. Maybe she’d be a little more careful if there was ever a chance Matt would catch her at it, but Foggy’s the only one who sees it, and he thinks they’d be nice togeth–

Wouldn’t last, because if there’s one thing that’s true about Matt Murdock it’s that you’re either his friend or his lover, and lovers don’t last long. To date, Foggy’s the only friend he’s ever seen Matt even attempt to make, so.

So it’d probably be better if they just stayed friends, because he  _likes_  Karen. He wants her to stick around for a long time. (And yeah, he wants to take her out again, wants to get some of those looks turned his way, wants to be the reason sunshine peeks out of her smile once in a while, but he also just _likes_ her.)

It’s Matt’s birthday and they have the saddest cupcake-cake known to mankind half-demolished on the table between them. It’s getting late, and they’ve actually got court tomorrow so Matt and Karen have both vetoed Foggy’s idea to go to the bar – “We’ll go out to celebrate the win, Foggy,” Karen promises, dimpling a smile. – and she rounds the table, tucking her hair behind her ear as she drops a kiss onto Matt’s cheek.

“Happy birthday,” she tells him, and he smiles, easy and fond, as she straightens out and looks at Foggy expectantly.  


“What?” He asks, halfway through the motion of licking frosting off his fingertips. “Oh, right. Happy birthday, Matty,” he says, as though he’d  _forgotten_ , but his tone is teasing.  


“What, no kiss?” Matt asks, and his voice hikes in time with his eyebrow, a dark slash over dark glasses.  


Karen rolls her eyes, and Foggy’s heart does a little somersault as he reaches for a napkin, wiping his hands clean. “Last time I tried to kiss you I was unfairly and very publicly rebuffed, man. In front of present company, even.”

“Well,” Matt says, as Karen reaches for her purse and passes a hand over Foggy’s shoulder in a light, friendly pat. “It  _is_  my birthday.”  


“All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, making a show of adjusting his tie. “Once you go full Nelson, you don’t go back.”  


With Karen’s bright, stutter-startled laughter in the background, he lays one on Matt, deliberate and firm. After just a moment too long for Foggy's unsteady heart, Matt breaks away and smacks at him, his laughter joining Karen’s.

“All right, all right,” Matt chuckles, waving him away. “Point taken.”  


With a significant look, Foggy says, “By the way, that was a half Nelson at  _best_.” and Karen and Matt both groan, but he knows he’s  _hilarious_.

## v. don’t fall for your best friend.

He means it this last time.

Nobody’s drunk, nobody’s tired. His mother’s not around goading him into a funny picture, there’s no audience to play off and turn it into a joke. It’s him and Matt, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, half-eaten boxes of take-out on the desk behind them, standing at the window.

Foggy’s looking out and watching cars go by, and Matt’s just standing there, close enough that their arms are touching from elbow to shoulder, and he thinks, why the hell not?

“Matt,” he says, and Matt’s head turns, tipping toward Foggy like it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s a bruise purpling over his jaw, a cut at the corner of his eyebrow, and he just waits.

Matt’s headed out tonight, Foggy knows he is, and this isn’t one of those moments. It’s not a dramatic  _be careful out there_ , because he’s still pretty pissed that Matt’s doing this at all. It’s just – something he wants to do. Something he’s been  _wanting_  to do for a long time, and he’s convinced himself it’s not a good idea, but he’s tired of butting his head up against the same argument when there’s no resolution.

He's tired of pretending he doesn't care in the way that he does, and he's tired of pretending Matt doesn't know how that he cares in the way that does. (Tired of pretending that he has anything to hide anymore, that he'd been the first one to know between the two of them. Matt's probably known for years. _Years._ )

So he circles the back of Matt’s neck and draws him down with plenty of time for Matt to put up a hand, turn his head away, even say a simple  _no_ , because that’s all it’d take.

He doesn’t.


End file.
